


In a Hundred Years

by Frisky_Business



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gives me life, Excuse me as I write stuff for myself, Fluff, Gen, Honestly this is super sentimental of me, I can't get over how much I love this man, Lord Byron - Freeform, Poetry, She Walks in Beauty, There's no funny bits though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frisky_Business/pseuds/Frisky_Business
Summary: You live across the street from Mr. Fell's bookshop.





	In a Hundred Years

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I get really sentimental when I'm tired beyond reason. Also, I own nothing. I got low-key inspiration from Michael Sheen reading this poem on Spotify and my heart was like, "Ah yes. This is exactly what you need". 
> 
> I suppose I was also thinking about the relationship between Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman in this. But take that as you will.

Peace and comfort were something you found yourself craving. Nothing quite fit the bill like being surrounded by books, the smell of ink and weathered pages and of places you could only dream of. Long lost stories written among yellowed pages and longing of things you had no idea that you desired. Your eyes lazily gliding across pages and feeling an overwhelming sensation of exhaustion take hold, your finger tips gracing the tome with love and compassion for an author long passed. Wearily you feel yourself drifting… You knew it wasn’t the best place to descend, but there really was no desire to fight the urge any longer.

And sleep overtook you. 

And night fell. 

The lights dimmed in the shop and the sound of rain pattering on the window sill startled you, the soft sounds of a storm approaching. You cracked open your eyes and noticed the shop owner lazing in a chair next to you, a cup of tea ready to be consumed. His eyes met yours with a playful smile. 

“Mr. Fell… I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s quite alright, darling.” He responded, “Normal amount of sugar for your tea? I already added milk, I do hope that is alright.”

“Yeah. Thank you.” You rubbed your eyes as you noticed the clock in the corner of the room, reading 9PM. You felt embarrassment rush over you as you stared at him. “I wish you would have woken me up, I wouldn’t have overstayed my welcome.”

“I believe you’re taking words out of my mouth.” He responded, his hand gently grazing yours. “I figured you must have been tired and I thought it would be best to allow you time to sleep. Plus, I know how boring Charles Dickens can be at times.” He mused thoughtfully as he seemed to remember an inside joke from a long, long time ago. Mr. Fell was ageless. As you continued to grow up, he remained the same age. You lived across the street from the bookshop for at least ten years now. You moved when you were only ten yourself, and you found yourself digging through copies of “Where the Wild Things Are’ and “The Little Prince”. He would always have any book you were looking for, even if you didn’t know the title yourself. There was always a homely feeling in the shop, and you found yourself often lying in the overstuffed chairs and pouring over books. No matter the reason for your resistance to go home, Mr. Fell’s shop offered solace you could fall back on. You didn’t originally like tea, but over the span of time you spent with the bookshop owner, you found yourself getting a particular affinity for mysterious herbal mixes and dark black teas from India. 

You felt a disconnect from your parents, and Mr. Fell offered assurance in the best way possible. Hot tea and a novel highlighting a solution to almost any issue you had. No matter what the issue was, it seemed he always had a book that would solve the problem. 

“I’m moving.” You spoke, “I got a new job. I guess I was just scared to leave. Scared to start something new and weird.”

You came to him crying over boys. He would simply chuckle and suggest that you find a man who could write you poetry like Lord Byron or William Wordsworth. You, being a 15 year old girl, gazed at him lovingly as he recited a few lines from ‘She Walks In Beauty”.

“She walks in beauty; like the night…” You felt your heart race, his words just sweet and tender in your heart. You wanted to keep this moment forever in your memory, and you had. Every annunciated syllable, careful and thoughtful. 

“Oh,” he said, his expression puzzled and hard to read. “Well, it certainly is for the best.” Mr. Fell looked over at you and calmly held a smile. “I will miss you.”

~~~“Of cloudless climes and starry skies…”~~~

“I don’t think I’ll ever find a man like you, Mr. Fell.” You commented one day, at the age of 13. “I want to marry you.”

“Don’t think you’d want an old man like me. A lady such as yourself deserves someone young and strapping.” 

“Do you think you’d consider marrying me if I asked again?” He looked amused, a gentle smile on his lips.

“Stranger things have happened. If you feel that way after a hundred years, then I shall gladly take you as my wife, my dear.” You let out a giggle, feeling your heart pound. 

“I’m sure I will. No man will ever be as perfect as you, Mr.Fell.” 

~~~“And all that’s the best of dark and bright…”~~~

“If I came back in eighty years, is your offer still good?” He fixed his glasses, taking a sip from his cup. “I’ll be all wrinkled up like a prune, but you… You’ll be the same.”

“Yes. I do believe my offer is still valid.” He didn’t bother commenting on your knowing assumption. 

~~~“Meet in her aspect and her eyes…”~~~

He smelled like after shave and cocoa. You showed him your mediocre writing attempts, and he seemed to love everything you gave him. You’d carefully leave it in his study, unable to watch him browse through the words because of your nerves. He’d always hand it back the next afternoon, beautiful and articulate sprawl decorating the page like calligraphy. He was delicate and loving, his words always fixed your work in /just/ the right way. 

“It got published.” 

“As I knew it would.” 

“Only because of you.” You felt uncomfortable, tears welling in your eyes. He took out a handkerchief and slid it over to you, his eyes never breaking contact. 

~~~“Thus mellowed to that tender light…”~~~

“No my dear. It was all you. Everything in that book was all you. I did nothing but helped you along.” He spoke, as if lifting a curse from your soul; you felt at ease. 

“Mr. Fell. I’m going to miss you so much.” You stood from your chair, feeling your body crumble into a mess of emotions. He embraced you, and gently combed your hair with his finger tips. 

“We will meet again. I’m only a letter or a phone call away.”

“I know but it won’t be the same.”

“It isn’t going to be the same. It never is. But that doesn’t mean your happiness will fade. I’ll always be a fond memory and a constant companion. Think of it as a new chapter.”

“I-I love you Mr. Fell.” Words trickled from your lips, a heart wrenching feeling of lost emotions wrapped you in its embrace.

“As I love you too, my dear. But it’s time for you to move on to greater things.”

~~~“Which heaven to gaudy day denies…”~~~

The rain stopped. Your tears stained your cheeks. You departed from the bookshop, a small tome wrapped in your arms. A first edition of finely written poems of a master, in no better hands than your own. Your fingertips gracing the yellowed pages whenever you felt sentimental.

But you knew you’d meet again.


End file.
